Read Online Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station by Dorothy Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy Gilman
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Iris announced, joining them. ”I bought those white jade cups
at Canton airport, remember?” As the natives gathered to watch, she dug into her purse,
brought out small wrinkled bills and then several coins and presented them to
the man. He selected several fen, beamed at her, and issued them
tickets.
”Now this,” said Joe Forbes as they entered, ”has to be the real China .”
Mrs. Pollifax was inclined to believe him. There were paths to the right
and to the left, but she was drawn instead toward a crowd straight ahead from
which, even at a distance, she could hear roars of laughter. Joining it Mrs.
Pollifax stood on tiptoe to peer over heads and found them gathered around a
television set, a modest and perfectly normal television set plugged into some
unseen outlet in the out-of-doors, with cartoons dancing across its screen.
Amazing she thought, and looked instead into the faces of the people watching
the cartoons, touched by their innocent excitement and joy.
The subtitles, however, were in Chinese, and presently— still smiling at
the pleasure it was giving—she moved away to investigate a small growing crowd
off to the left, and discovered Malcolm seated under a tree sketching. Not far
away George Westrum was attempting sign language with a young woman, with Joe
Forbes chuckling at his elbow. At once a young man spotted Mrs. Pollifax and
hurried to her side. ”You are American too,” he cried eagerly. ”I may ask
questions?”
”Oh yes,” she told him warmly. ”Ni hao! Good evening!”
His boldness, his daring, immediately drew people from Malcolm’s circle
into his, and Mrs. Pollifax found herself smiled at and approved as the
audience waited with attention for their comrade to address this visitor from a
country halfway across the world. Their pride in him was palpable, and Mrs.
Pollifax waited too, her heart beating a trifle faster at the importance of
this moment.
”In America ,”
he said slowly, his brows knitted together by the seriousness with which he,
too, regarded this moment ”you grow cotton?”
Mrs. Pollifax, a little surprised, nodded her head. ”Yes. Oh yes. In our
southern states.”
”Suzzen states?”
”Warm places,” she explained. ”Like Canton ?”
”Canton?” He looked bewildered, and she saw that they had suddenly lost
their way; the eagerness still hung between them, tangible but severely
threatened.
”No,” she said, trying to retrieve direction, ”in the United States ,
where I live. Where—” She was suddenly overwhelmed by the nouns, pronouns,
verbs that separated them and with which she must frame a sentence, acutely
aware too of the perplexities of for and about and from; the wall between them seemed opaque, the gulf immeasurable, and then with sudden
inspiration she remembered the snapshots she had crammed into her purse at the
last minute. She reached into her purse and drew them out: a photograph of her
apartment house, with herself standing in front of it; several of her grandson
opening packages at Christmas in her living room,- one of Cyrus, and two of her
geraniums. She offered them to this new friend. With great wonder her pictures
were accepted, people crowded in to peer over his shoulder, they were then
distributed by the young man, one by one, moving from hand to hand accompanied
by murmurs of awe and surprise.
”Snow?” asked her friend, pointing to the picture of her
standing in front of her apartment house.
”Yes,” she said, nodding happily. ”Yes, snow. Too cold there for cotton.”
”Ah—I see, I see,” he cried in relief, understanding, and addressed his
friends rapidly and with authority.
”Husband?” he asked, pointing to Cyrus.
She smiled. ”A very dear friend.”
”Aha,” he cried joyously, and again addressed the crowd, but it was the
photographs of her grandson that drew the most appreciative murmurs, and she
was given glances of deep respect.
A picture, she thought, was certainly worth a thousand
at Canton airport, remember?” As the natives gathered to watch, she dug into her purse,
brought out small wrinkled bills and then several coins and presented them to
the man. He selected several fen, beamed at her, and issued them
tickets.
”Now this,” said Joe Forbes as they entered, ”has to be the real China .”
Mrs. Pollifax was inclined to believe him. There were paths to the right
and to the left, but she was drawn instead toward a crowd straight ahead from
which, even at a distance, she could hear roars of laughter. Joining it Mrs.
Pollifax stood on tiptoe to peer over heads and found them gathered around a
television set, a modest and perfectly normal television set plugged into some
unseen outlet in the out-of-doors, with cartoons dancing across its screen.
Amazing she thought, and looked instead into the faces of the people watching
the cartoons, touched by their innocent excitement and joy.
The subtitles, however, were in Chinese, and presently— still smiling at
the pleasure it was giving—she moved away to investigate a small growing crowd
off to the left, and discovered Malcolm seated under a tree sketching. Not far
away George Westrum was attempting sign language with a young woman, with Joe
Forbes chuckling at his elbow. At once a young man spotted Mrs. Pollifax and
hurried to her side. ”You are American too,” he cried eagerly. ”I may ask
questions?”
”Oh yes,” she told him warmly. ”Ni hao! Good evening!”
His boldness, his daring, immediately drew people from Malcolm’s circle
into his, and Mrs. Pollifax found herself smiled at and approved as the
audience waited with attention for their comrade to address this visitor from a
country halfway across the world. Their pride in him was palpable, and Mrs.
Pollifax waited too, her heart beating a trifle faster at the importance of
this moment.
”In America ,”
he said slowly, his brows knitted together by the seriousness with which he,
too, regarded this moment ”you grow cotton?”
Mrs. Pollifax, a little surprised, nodded her head. ”Yes. Oh yes. In our
southern states.”
”Suzzen states?”
”Warm places,” she explained. ”Like Canton ?”
”Canton?” He looked bewildered, and she saw that they had suddenly lost
their way; the eagerness still hung between them, tangible but severely
threatened.
”No,” she said, trying to retrieve direction, ”in the United States ,
where I live. Where—” She was suddenly overwhelmed by the nouns, pronouns,
verbs that separated them and with which she must frame a sentence, acutely
aware too of the perplexities of for and about and from; the wall between them seemed opaque, the gulf immeasurable, and then with sudden
inspiration she remembered the snapshots she had crammed into her purse at the
last minute. She reached into her purse and drew them out: a photograph of her
apartment house, with herself standing in front of it; several of her grandson
opening packages at Christmas in her living room,- one of Cyrus, and two of her
geraniums. She offered them to this new friend. With great wonder her pictures
were accepted, people crowded in to peer over his shoulder, they were then
distributed by the young man, one by one, moving from hand to hand accompanied
by murmurs of awe and surprise.
”Snow?” asked her friend, pointing to the picture of her
standing in front of her apartment house.
”Yes,” she said, nodding happily. ”Yes, snow. Too cold there for cotton.”
”Ah—I see, I see,” he cried in relief, understanding, and addressed his
friends rapidly and with authority.
”Husband?” he asked, pointing to Cyrus.
She smiled. ”A very dear friend.”
”Aha,” he cried joyously, and again addressed the crowd, but it was the
photographs of her grandson that drew the most appreciative murmurs, and she
was given glances of deep respect.
A picture, she thought, was certainly worth a thousand
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